Atarinke
by Laerthel
Summary: Celebrimbor in Nargothrond; well-known, respected, even loved, but still utterly alone. For kim-onka


For the fic trade with kim-onka – _dark, hazy and distant. Still, I hope you'll like it, or at least find it interesting..._

**About the names:**

Telperinquar = Celebrimbor

Atar means 'Father' in Quenya ~ it refers to Curufin (and Grandfather to Fëanor, of course).

Nelyo = Nelyafinwë = Maedhros

Tyelko = Tyelkormo = Celegorm

The Lord of Nargothrond is Orodreth these times, the Lady is Finduilas, his daughter.

* * *

><p><strong>Atarinke<strong>

His father was gone, mayhaps, but he never truly left. He stayed there... _within_. And Telperinquar grew to be more conscious of his presence than he ever was.

Atar was there whenever he looked into the mirror; tall, strong, gracious as always. Atar was there in the silent, latent sorrow in his dark glance. Atar was there within the sharp line of his jaw and the neat form of his lips. Atar was there in the anger that enshrouded his forehead whenever he inflamed and Atar was there within the icy scorn which thrusted at anyone who dared to displease him. Telperinquar's sorrow sometimes deepened still, his anger slept and he wanted to weep but Atar was ever there, fighting back his tears; and sometimes it was Telperinquar fighting back Atar - cursing and weeping -, but Atar always won.

Atar was there in the smithy, guiding his hands as he flipped another splinter off the ruby he was polishing. Atar was watching him from behind as he forged the raw steel which was supposed to become a warhelm, a longsword, a shield, a piece of armour -

_a knife in the heart, an arrow stuck in the throat, poisoned steel, poisoned soul, poisoned life -_

Atar was present in each and every one of his moves, from the day he'd first grabbed a hammer.

.

Atar was there within, his low shrill voice pervading his words, sweetening them with will-less malice. It was unwanted. It wasn't Telperinquar. It was Atar, and Atar grew stronger every day while Telperinquar weakened and weakened and wanted to flee but he could not.

Atar was there, hidden in his joy and his sorrow, his fear and his bravery, his strength and his weakness, his hope and his despair.

_Night and day._

_Heart and soul._

_Life and death._

Atar flew there inside his veins, Atar was beating there in his heart, Atar was even present in his shortest strand of ebony hair.

Atar was himself.

. . .

Time went by and Atar seemed to loose control on him. Weeks passed, or months, or years, or a century – it was all the same for Telperinquar, who never left the smoldering heat-haze of the smithy, even though Atar was _there_. There within the hard stone walls, the chisels, the raw steel he forged, the soft cracklings of flame, even in the air he breathed in.

.

_There were times when Telperinquar wished he'd have followed the stranger he was required to call Atar. He never wanted to leave his father... It was his father who'd left him, and long ago. Atar was brave, valiant but also smart; a master of lore, a fearsome fighter, the greatest craftsman on Arda since Grandfather had passed away._

_And Atar has died with him._

.

Telperinquar wandered around in the eternal darkness of the smithy, hours uncounted. Each step a heartbeat, each heartbeat a rush of pain, the thrust of an icy dagger amongst his ribs. He wished for the pain to end, he wished for relief – he would have wished for death, but Atar could have been there in the Halls of Mandos for all he knew, and Telperinquar doubted that dying would imply any sort of restitution.

He did not swear an Oath, burned no ships and never killed anyone who yielded. Yet what could he have hoped for, as a son who'd disowned his father...? No creature is more detested, more accursed, more despicable in the eyes of the Noldor than those who become estranged from their kin, those who belie the bounds of blood and soul.

But what could he have hoped for, if it was _himself_ he'd have belied?

_Do what you think is right,_ uncle Nelyo had once said.

_Do what you know is right,_ Atar had once said.

_Do what is right, _Grandfather had once said.

_Right for who? _- Telperinquar had always wondered. - _For my kin? For you? For myself? For the Noldor? For Arda? What is right for me, may prove wrong for the others, and if I sacrificed my wits, my blood, my life for the greater good of our kin, would you be satisfied, any of you?_

He thought that they would.

Telperinquar knew what was right. He knew it, since the day they'd first set foot in Nargothrond, since the day he'd finally opened his eyes to see what had become of Atar. The day was about to come when he'd have to choose, he knew. Then the day has come and Telperinquar made his choice but no one ever told him it would be so painful and confusing.

His father had left, his uncle with him. But they were still one kin.

_Telperinquar revolted. Telperinquar left the Blessed Realm by Atar's side. Telperinquar deceived, Telperinquar cursed and Telperinquar killed._

_But Telperinquar changed. There was no turning back.  
>And thus amongst the ashes, charred and black as they were, a new sparkle lighted up.<em>

. . .

One day, Telperinquar left the smithy to attend a feast in the Great Hall. Not so long ago, he would have even rejected the mere thought of leaving the forge and entering a hall with all the fires burning -, _the smoke of Atar's anger rising above in black circlets_ -, all the faces looking – _Atar's mild disgust appearing on Telperinquar's face whenever he had to eye them_ -, and all the voices whispering – _Atar's fist wanting to smite them for each and every sound_.

Atar would have been there beside the high table, making Telperinquar's wine taste sour and his meal taste like nothing at all. Atar would have been there, making every bite an agony. Atar would have been there, wanting him to rise, to grab his sword, to steal a horse and ride off into the night to find him. And Telperinquar would have rose and walked out of the Great Hall of Nargothrond, every eye on him.

But Atar was gone.

.

Telperinquar went for a walk in the gardens. He took pleasure in the autumn sunlight, soft and golden on his pale skin. He took pleasure in the wind, the trees and the flowers, the grass under his feet. An evanescent ghost of a smile appeared on his face, but it was gone as suddenly as it came and Telperinquar glanced behind his back, alarmed.

Someone was around him. Someone was watching him, following him. Maybe he should have expected this in an eternally crowded city but Telperinquar had grown to withstand any company. His right hand moved swiftly towards his sword-hilt, his mind filled with shadows of the past.

"There's no need to cut my head off, Lord of Smiths! I only wish for some words with you, if you would be so kind to walk with me."

His hand fell off the steel as he halted. A graceful figure rose to view in the gleamy morning mist. It was a lady; tall and fair, lithe and lightsome, her eyes blue as the summer skies, her skin snow-white, her hair lustrous golden; and for a moment, Telperinquar felt as though the Sun itself had enfleshed to walk the green gardens of Nargothrond. There was something warm and reassuring sparkling in her eyes that melt the icy fetters off his heart in a second and he smiled, for the first time in years, from the depths of his soul. For he knew this face, he knew this voice, and he grew to be fond of both through the years he'd spent in peace in these gardens and halls, with Atar and uncle Tyelko still by his side. And all of a sudden, he realised that it was this face he'd missed the most, not the Sun, not the skies and not the wide halls, not even Atar.

"Every second is a pleasure to spend with the Lady of Nargothrond" he smiled, suddenly feeling much better as they walked, arm-in-arm, along the gardens.

.

The Lady of Nargothrond (Telperinquar secretly called her the Sun but he'd have never said this aloud) told her many things; some joyful, some disquieting, and also one that made Telperinquar shiver, though he hid his dread well. Things have changed much and more since Telperinquar had chose to fade into darkness and solitude, and things might have happened otherwise if he'd been able to overcome his pain a little sooner.

There was a great battle to come, or so everyone whispered; the Lord Maedhros assembled all the force he had – Elves, Dwarves and Men -, to march against Angband, to break its walls, to defeat the Enemy. Yet the Lord of Nargothrond would not lead his army to help the Sons of Fëanor, and thus only a small company of Elves left the city's walls, against his counsel. The leader of the company was Gwindor, son of Guilin; a dear friend for Telperinquar and a husband-to-be for the fair lady who walked by his side.

_So full of hope you are, unbent, unbroken,_ Telperinquar thought, watching the sunlight frisking about with dewdrops in her hair. _What will you do if your hopes betray you? And even if all your dreams come true and your betrothed comes back, laughing, flowers in his hair as we all used to know him, his heart will be changed. No soul can survive the horrors of such a battle: the dead, the wounded and the withered and stay as it was, changeless. And if it will change for the better or the worse, who can guess?_

But all he said aloud were words of trust and confidence, the ones she needed. Of his own doubts, of sorrow and despair, he said little and less. He let her warm his heart up, for admittedly, he needed her that time, as much as she needed him.

. . .

The autumn turned to winter, the winter into spring, the spring into summer, and Gwindor did not come. Nor did any words of him, or Atar, or any of his kin. The hope of the Lady started to fade, her fair face clouded, her hands grew cold, though Telperinquar tried everything to uphold her.

The nights were colder and colder, autumn came then winter, and still there was no word of the battle, only some fearful hints of a mound, raised of the bodies of the dead. But then the next spring came, and news with it...

Reports of utter defeat. Orcs ravaging the North. The death-rate of the High King Fingon – Telperinquar had once called him Uncle, but Atar had forbade him to say that ever again. Rumours of the Sons of Fëanor fleeing from their enemies and hiding in the eastern woodlands... but not any words of Gwindor.

Still, Telperinquar grew convinced that his friend _was_ alive, insane as it sounded; and he was now the one filled with hope, despite all the sullen, despairing silence around him. He was the glistening silvery light in the darkness of damage (the Lady of Nargothrond secretly called him the Moon but she'd never have said this aloud).

For apart from appareance, there was also one other thing, in which Telperinquar was perfectly like his father: he was stubborn. Stubbornly hopeful, in spite of everything.

Even in spite of himself.


End file.
